


you watch me bleed until i can't breathe

by alfisha



Series: halloween spoopy tales! [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Attempt at horror, Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Character Death, Ghosts, Heavy Angst, Horror, M/M, Murder, Possession, Possessive Behavior, Rituals, So much angst, Spirits, This is a wild ride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27101710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alfisha/pseuds/alfisha
Summary: The person was mangled, their head tilted at a painful angle, and each bone in their body seemed to be broken. Their arms were bent backwards, and their feet pointed in two different directions.This wasn't what caught Tom's attention.It was the breathing.Gasping, shallow breaths that rattled on their way out, seeming to fill the whole house with their noise.Oh yeah. And the knife in their left hand.Gnarled fingers twisted around the handle, and Tom's own breath caught in his throat at the sight.For once in his life, Tom was terrified.............harry has been acting strange.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: halloween spoopy tales! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946014
Comments: 58
Kudos: 55





	1. your words cut deeper than a knife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AdrianaSlytherin20](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdrianaSlytherin20/gifts).



> -burp- hi  
> i deleted the other ghost tom fic because it's wayy too much commitment and i hate that shit so  
> here we are with this mf  
> gifting this to churro bc shes the best wife/twin i could ever ask for  
> if the summary wasn't clear:  
> harry gets possessed, shit happens, more stuff happens yay.  
> i'm very tired.  
> this is the new halloween fic wee woo yayy. it'll have four parts, maybe 3 depending on my laziness/structuring.  
> anyways enough of my rambling les goooooo

"Hey."

Tom turned, and smiled as Harry stumbled into the room, his hair messier than usual; the type of unkempt that only comes after an amazingly deep sleep.

"Hey." Tom replied, drawing Harry close to him with one arm whilst the other continued stirring his tea. Harry pressed a sleepy kiss to the base of Tom's throat before pushing away, gravitating towards the fridge.

"Tea?" Tom asked, hand hovering over the kettle.

"Yeah." Harry mumbled, barely coherent, and Tom suppressed a chuckle - Harry had never been an early riser, and Tom found his hatred of mornings quite amusing.

Overall, the beginning of their day was perfectly idyllic.

If only it could have lasted.

  
  


Harry started acting strange around lunchtime.

As Tom read a book in his favourite armchair, Harry prepared the food. Nothing special; neither of them were fussy, and mostly preferred easier meals. So Harry had taken it upon himself to make sandwiches.

A fairly innocent task.

Tom glanced up when he could no longer hear activity, expecting the food to be ready. 

It wasn't.

He looked up to see Harry, standing still as a statue, staring with vacant eyes at the knife he'd been using to slice some cheese.

Tom furrowed his eyebrows at the odd behaviour. "Harry?"

His husband jumped, green eyes flitting to where Tom sat in bewilderment. 

"Are you okay?" Tom asked when Harry didn't say anything.

"Uh - yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just zoned out a bit." He said distractedly, smiling.

Tom's frown deepened, but thought nothing of it. He ignored the fact that Harry's smile was empty, and that his eyes strayed back to the knife when he thought Tom wasn't looking.

It would be fine.

(It wouldn't.)

  
  


Harry's 'zoning out' lasted the rest of the day.

It would happen at the strangest of times. They would be in deep conversation, and Harry would stare at a fixed point somewhere in the far distance and completely ignore everything Tom said.

Or they'd be in the middle of watching a film, with Harry curled up in Tom's lap, when he'd suddenly freeze up and swivel his head to stare at nothing.

Quite frankly, it was freaking Tom out.

Are you  _ sure _ you're okay?" He asked for the umpteenth time. 

"Yes, Tom."

"You're not sick? Or hurt? Or mad at me?"

"No, Tom."

"Are you  _ sure- _ "

"Oh my fucking god, shut up! I'm fine!" Harry snapped, and Tom reluctantly shut his mouth, even though something about the way Harry just spoke to him didn't seem... right.

"I'm going to bed." Harry said a moment later, and left the room before Tom could say a word.

The clock read 6pm; they hadn't even had dinner yet.

Tom sighed. Perhaps it was just an off day. Harry could have just been having mood swings.

From what? He didn't know.

After a lonely dinner for one, Tom found himself staring desolately up at the cracked ceiling of the living room, contemplating all that could be wrong.

Had he done something to upset Harry? Tom wracked his brain but could not think of anything. They had been so  _ happy _ recently; what changed? 

Tom's musings were interrupted by a thud from upstairs.

He sat up from his existential spot on the floor, staring intently at the top of the stairs, ears straining.

For a while, there was only silence.

And then...

_ Thump. _

"Harry?" He called, to which he earned no reply. "Harry? Are you alright?"

Still no answer.

Feeling just a little spooked, Tom stood, and began to approach the stairs. He only managed to take the first step before seeing it.

Two abnormally green eyes were staring at him.

They shined bright in the darkness, as if someone had lit green lanterns inside someone's eye sockets, and the sight filled Tom with a cold, dreadful feeling.

But that was irrational. It was only Harry.

Right?

The pair of eyes continued their stare. They seemed to look deep into Tom's soul, yet they lacked the intensity that one would have expected from them.

The eyes were distracted.

Quicker than Tom could blink, the body carrying these eyes darted away, away from the top of the stairs and out of sight.

Snapping out of his trance, Tom called out again, taking the steps slowly.

"Harry, you're freaking me out. What's the matter with you?" 

No answer. Somehow, Tom expected it.

Half-way up the stairs, a shuffle from a room down the hall caught his attention. Picking up his pace, Tom jogged to the top step, and peered around the wall.

There.

The silhouette of... someone.

He had thought, at first, it was Harry. But this figure did not belong to him.

The person was mangled, their head tilted at a painful angle, and each bone in their body seemed to be broken. Their arms were bent backwards, and their feet pointed in two different directions. 

This wasn't what caught Tom's attention.

It was the breathing. 

Gasping, shallow breaths that rattled on their way out, seeming to fill the whole house with their noise.

Oh yeah. And the knife in their left hand.

Gnarled fingers twisted around the handle, and Tom's own breath caught in his throat at the sight. 

For once in his life, Tom was terrified.

"Who are you?" He demanded, and took a second to praise himself for not letting his voice betray his anxiety.

No reply. Tom was getting rather sick of it.

The figure raised their hand, the one with the knife, and Tom caught a glimpse of... was that  _ cheese _ ?

"Where is Harry?" He asked, his tone no longer assertive. A panicked note had his voice seeming higher, more desperate.

The figure  _ laughed _ .

It was the worst noise Tom had ever heard.

The sound was something Tom had only ever listened to in horror films. High, cold, and cruel.

A noise behind Tom piqued his interest, his senses on high alert, but before he could turn around-

Pain.

Tom gasped, eyes bulging, and fell to his knees. Then his back.

Blood pooled around him, and the pain was so attention-seeking that he almost couldn’t register where he'd been hit. Then the next wave of agony washed over him, and he knew;

His back. 

All he could hear was his own pulse, hammering in his ears, thundering along his spine, and each beat sent more spasms of pain throughout his body.

Another stab. This time, the knife was left in. 

The last thing Tom remembered seeing was those two green eyes, finally losing their demonic light and dimming down to the shade Tom had always loved so much.

The last thing he heard was his own name. "Tom! Oh god, what have I-"

Black.


	2. now i need someone to breathe me back to life.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> being a ghost is all fun and games until it's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this went a little outside the plan whoops  
> i realised that i forgot all about the crooked being from last chapter, so i had to do something about it lol. enjoy? if you can? idk.   
> some context for the "afterlife" in this:  
> when you die, you reside in the place that was most iconic to you during your life. for tom, it's the house that he and harry bought together. the dead cannot interact with the living, although sometimes if they knock something over with enough sheer willpower, the same will happen in the real world. the living can influence the land of the dead easier; if harry moves something irl, it will move for tom.  
> sometimes, there is bad energy attached to a house/place. they are usually from beings that had no happy place, and instead choose to take out their anger and discontent on other dead people, or in this case, the living.   
> i hope that helps. if you have questions, just ask 

The first thing Tom registered when he woke up was the cold. 

It was blanketing; the air crushed his skin and seeped into his bones hungrily, eating away at any warmth that he may have had left.

Next was the pain.

Not as overwhelming as before, but still sending sharp spikes of hurt throughout his body as he attempted to right himself. 

He managed to sit up, propping himself against the banister, and looked around. Something was… wrong. 

The house didn’t look the same. The walls were grey and peeling, and a heavy fog drifted a few inches above the ground despite being inside. The floorboards were rotted and creaky, and there seemed to be moss growing between the wood. 

The strangest thing of all was the body lying in the hallway.

Tom shuffled closer, mindful not to disturb the wound in his back, and pushed some hair away from its face.

It... looked like him.

Exactly like him.

His jaw, his nose, his skin and his eyes, wide open and frozen in terrified disbelief.

But that was impossible. Completely mad.

He yanked his hand away, scrambling back again, but for some reason didn't feel the need to breathe. His lungs were working, drawing air in rapidly, but there was no need for it.

He stopped, for a moment, to experiment.

Tom counted. 1...2...3...

The seconds dragged on, but Tom's chest didn't spasm in pain, and he didn't gasp for air like a fish out of water.   
Was he dead?

His first instinct would be to brush that ridiculous thought off, to laugh at his own idiocy.

But the evidence was there.

Who else could that body belong to? 

He didn't have a twin, nor a doppelganger, and he already knew his father was dead.

It was a moment where Tom knew he should be panicking. 

He should be disturbed, unhinged, in denial, shaking at his body and demanding to whatever higher power there was that he be put  _ back _ .

He didn't want to go back.

The cold, though overwhelming, was welcoming. 

Things were better here. He could stay, and be safe.

Tom stood, and looked around at the hallway curiously.

It looked the same as his old house. Their old house. He shared it with someone. Who did he share it with?

Tom searched his mind desperately, looking for an answer, but came up with nothing. The details from his life were murky, as if he were peering in at them through muddy, distorting water.   
A noise from downstairs caught his attention, and Tom was instantly on guard. He wasn't alone, as he had first thought.   
Stepping over his slumped body, Tom ventured to the stairs, descending them cautiously.    
A man. Standing in his living room.   
Tom jumped, backing away, covering himself behind the wall as he observed.   
The man was pacing. He seemed a little blurry around the edges, and his voice was muffled, as if he were very far away or talking through a wall.

He had messy black hair, and eyes as green as emeralds. 

A spark of recognition ignited in Tom's mind, and he watched the man with interest.

He could barely pick up on his words, but managed to catch a few things. He seemed to be muttering to himself.

"He's dead. He's dead. I killed him. He's  _ dead _ ."   
How intriguing.

The man's eyes drifted over to the base of the stairs, and Tom moved a second too late.

Expecting a shout, or some kind of confrontation, Tom took an unnecessary deep breath - a habit he wasn't sure would ever leave.

Silence.

Tom peeked around the door frame again, and the man was still staring at him.

But,  _ not  _ at him.

His gaze seemed to slip right past him,  _ through _ him, as if Tom wasn’t even there.

Frowning, Tom followed his line of sight, and found a yellowing photo inside a frame attached to the wall.

A photo of him. And the man?

They were standing outside a house. This house, on the moving day. The sign read 'SOLD' in bold red lettering, and the man was smiling widely. 

Tom appeared to be laughing, the skin around his eyes crinkled and his lips parted to show his teeth. His arm was wrapped around the other man's waist, and they were too close.

He looked happy.

They both did.

There was writing on the frame, and some part of him instinctively smiled fondly at his husband's habit.

_ Husband?  _

He looked closer, and squinted to read the unclear writing. 

'MOVING DAY! TOM AND HARRY CLAIM THIS RICKETY BOX OF WOOD FOR GOOD!'

_ Harry _ .

The familiarity of the name made Tom stagger, and he had to grip the wall to ensure he wouldn't fall over.

A million images returned to him at once, all in vibrant, violent colours, drastically different to the cold grey of his current world.

Harry.  _ His _ Harry.

Tom swivelled his head back to the other person, but he was looking away.

He rushed into the room, heading straight for Harry.

"Harry!" He yelled, using his voice for the first time since he'd woken up. "Harry! I'm here, I'm okay!"

No response. Not even a glimmer of reaction.

Frustrated, Tom reached out and shook his partner by the shoulders.

Except, he didn't.

His hands passed right through him, leaving a strange tingling sensation behind. He tried again, and again, and again, but each time he was met with disappointment.    
That's when he found out it was possible for the dead to cry.

  
  


Harry wasn't doing well.

Tom had decided, ever since that moment in the living room, that he'd stay. He'd observe.

What he saw wasn't pretty.

Harry wasn't himself. His zoning out continued, worse than ever, and each time it happened Harry would violently yank himself back into the present, shaking with unsuppressed grief and rage.

"You can't control me!" He'd yell at no one, and Tom's heart would break all over again.

He knew he should be angry. He should have left this house and gone out to adventure, to explore this new world, and leave Harry to suffer.

After all, it was Harry's fault he was dead.

Despite the hurt and betrayal that welled up inside him without his permission, he couldn't bring himself to abandon his old life.

Maybe it was stupidly sentimental, but Tom had so many  _ memories _ here. Each room he entered hit him like a tonne of bricks, tossing new discoveries and memories his way.   
It was nice to reminisce, even when he knew there was no going back.

One evening, after a particularly bad episode, Harry seemed to snap.

He jumped up, fists balled at his sides, and jammed some shoes onto his feet.

He stormed out the house and didn't return for hours.

When he did, he was armed with books.

So many books, each one thick and heavy and old-looking.Tom caught a glimpse of the title of one; 'Necromancy: Dealings of the Dead'.

And another; 'Fighting Possession', as well as a  _ Bible. _

Each book related, in some way, to death and ghosts.

How unusual.

It's typical, Tom thought to himself, that it took his own  _ death _ to get Harry to pick up reading.

Tom peered over Harry's shoulder most of the time, reading along with him. The books were dark, and dangerous, and there were huge risks in going through with the instructions they depicted.

Tom was so  _ proud _ .

All of Harry's time was consumed by these books. He neglected sleep, hygiene, and even food to analyse them. When he finished one, he'd move on to the next without batting an eyelid.

Sometimes, Tom grew bored.

It wasn't surprising; being dead was so new and potentially exciting, and here he was stuck reading about how to bring him  _ away _ from his merciful 'life'.

So he ventured away. Mostly, he was looking for whatever Harry had been seeing in his episodes, searching the house top to bottom and drifting into rooms below the house - rooms he hadn't known existed until now.

He found that being, essentially, a ghost, was quite fun. 

The physical restraints that came with life seemed to melt away, and he rarely used doorways anymore. If he so desired, he could sink through the floor and drift amongst the dirt and foundations.

No matter how hard he searched, he could never find Harry's tormentor.

Even when Harry went into his fits, Tom would leap into action, following his pointed gaze and trying to  _ see _ .

He never could.

It was so  _ irritating _ .

He rarely found himself angry anymore - emotions were much simpler after death, he had come to realise. 

His most extreme feelings were that of irritation, satisfaction, boredom and fondness.

One could see it as limiting, but it honestly made things easier.

If he were to feel all that he could in life, he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to forgive Harry for what he’d done.

One evening, Tom returned from a search to quite the debacle.

Harry was sitting on the floor in their living room, multiple candles spread out around him with a book open in his lap. He was saying something, though Tom still hadn’t managed to improve his hearing, with Harry being in a different plane of existence and all.

He sat to the side and observed as the lights flickered, as Harry’s expression grew more and more distressed and determined, how the candle flames roared into life and black smoke circled the room violently, knocking over photos and mugs and loose objects.

Then it all stopped.

Harry stayed on the ground for a few moments, panting heavily, and Tom watched his shoulders shake violently with morbid interest.

He looked exhausted.

The candlelight sent shadows crawling up the sides of his face, accenting his hollow, sagging cheeks and deep eyebags. His hair had grown longer, more unkempt, and was more tangled than Tom had ever seen it.

He looked unhinged.

But something immediately felt…  _ off.  _ Tom’s world suddenly got darker, and a sinking feeling of dread slithered down his throat and settled in his stomach. His freezing plane of existence turned impossibly colder, and the ever-present wound in his back gave a pitiful throb.

A creak from the hallway.

Tom turned his head slowly, and met the piercing gaze of the disfigured man.

The one that watched him die.

For a moment, whatever concept of time that existed in his world stood still. He was drowning in those bottomless eyes, suffocating in the mocking aura.

Harry may have removed what was taunting him from the land of the living, but he’d sent it right back to where it came from. 

Being dead didn’t seem so fun anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)  
> make sure to check out my other works, i'd appreciate it a lot  
> or maybe consider subbing? 


	3. begging you to come help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!!!!!!!!!!  
> ITS MY FAVOURITE HOLIDAY! IT'S HERE!!  
> also this is my second post today. if you wanna see my other work that i did with churro (the person this fic is gifted to mwah) then go click:
> 
> [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27282502/chapters/66656002)
> 
> also!! there is a thing called a "ghost wall" in this. i did some rewrite of the lore, i didnt have much info to go off of (google wanted me to read some novel ugh) so i bugged my friend until they gave me an explanation :)  
> if it's wrong then whatever i dont care. just enjoy ok? ok.

The figure smiled, an eerie, unnatural grin that sent shockwaves of pure, unadulterated  _ fear  _ coursing through Tom’s veins. The expression didn’t belong on its face; the teeth were too pointed, and the smile itself looked as if it had been carved into its face with a knife.

It glanced at Harry, and Tom was horrified to know that  _ it  _ could see him too. 

Harry looked relieved, and Tom wanted to laugh at how different their situations were. 

For a moment, that smile flickered, and those pit-like eyes darkened. It was angry. Tom took an instinctive step back, and the eyes snapped back to him. The smile was back in place.

“Hello, Tom.” It said, and its voice was everything horrible in the world transformed into a sound. It was grating, like the sound a car makes when it collides harshly with flesh, crushing bone and muscle and tendon under its weight. It was the sound of nails on a chalkboard, of a hyena crowing over its newest victim, of a knife against metal.

Everything about it was so  _ wrong,  _ and Tom wondered how Harry had put up with it for as long as he had; although, he didn’t exactly know how long that was.

Another step back, and the grin grew impossibly wider.

“What’s wrong?” It asked, taking a step closer. Its backwards feet crunched from the pressure, and Tom winced. “Am I not pretty enough for you, Tom?” It whispered, sounding almost sad. It looked at Harry once again, and Tom wanted to  _ kill  _ it. “Perhaps something more familiar?” It murmured, and the smile looked more menacing than ever, if such a thing was possible.

Before Tom’s eyes, the thing morphed, sprouting thick black hair from its scalp, and its bottomless black eyes turned a vibrant, piercing green - just like the ones he’d seen at the top of the stairs. It neglected to change the rest of its body, however, and Tom was left to stare in horror at the mockery of Harry; his face with rotting skin, his body with mangled limbs and broken bones.

“Is this better?” It asked softly, and Tom wanted to scream that no, it was worse, it was  _ so much worse. _ “You don’t think so?” Another step forward.

Tom bolted.

He darted out of the living room, making a runner for the stairs. The thing was hot on his tail, and Tom suspected that if he had a working heart, it would be hammering. He reached the bottom step, and leapt up them, taking two at a time. The thing followed, and Tom got the feeling that it was staying an inch behind  _ on purpose _ . 

He reached the top of the stairs, and swung around onto the landing. 

The ghost of a smell drifted up his nose, and Tom gagged. His body was still there.

The skin was decomposing, flesh sagging to the side, thin hair barely holding on to the skin. Tom gagged again.

Everything happened at once.

Tom's chest tightened as he was suddenly thrown backwards, feeling suffocated for the first time since his death. It felt like he was falling; down and down and there was no end, only a bottomless abyss that he'd be stuck in forever-

Until it stopped.

Suddenly he was at the foot of the stairs again, with the  _ thing _ right behind him.

Once more he raced up the stairs, for he knew that a seconds' hesitation could cost everything.

And again, as he reached the top, he swung to the left and was confronted with the sickly sweet, decomposing body.

Tom gagged twice, and was thrown back. The feeling of suffocation resumed, and only stopped when Tom was once more at the foot of the stairs, running from his pursuer.

_ What is happening? _ He thought, and almost tripped on a step as cold fear ran up his spine. The thing cackled, and it was a thousand times worse than its voice.

"Are you scared, Tom?" The thing whispered tauntingly, and Tom swore he could feel the icy breath on his neck, even though he was still at least a few paces ahead.

He shook his head angrily, and carried on. Maybe if he kept running, it would eventually fade away.

No such thing happened.

Tom didn't know how long this continued for - this...  _ loop _ he was trapped in continued, repeating and repeating like a broken record. He never grew tired, never slowed down, but neither did the thing behind him. He raced through the house continuously, each time being thrown back to the start.  _ Why? _

He had never experienced such a thing before. The process was the same each time, though the thing behind him often chimed in with words of mocking comfort. “It’ll all be over soon,” It’d say. “All you have to do is  _ want. _ ”

But Tom  _ did  _ want. He wanted this to stop, he wanted the thing to be gone, and most of all, he  _ wanted to be with Harry. _

...But did he?

That thought crept into his mind unbidden, and Tom almost stopped in his tracks. Not that he could, of course. His legs kept running, pounding up the stairs, louder than what he remembered the pounding of a heart to sound like. 

He wanted to be with Harry. He was sure of it. He longed to be able to touch his spouse, to be able to talk to him and smile with him and be  _ alive- _

So maybe that was what it was. He desired life.

Life over Harry, perhaps?

He thought he’d accepted his death, his loss of life by Harry’s hand, and had been quite content with his isolation throughout the duration of his existence in this plane.

He’d been wrong.

As if a switch had been flipped, his running stopped, and he almost fell over at the abruptness. For a moment, there was silence. Until the thing laughed, practically purring with delight. “What a valiant performance, Tom.” It said, and Tom shivered once again as the words sent unwelcome licks of fear down his spine. “I look forward to seeing you again.”   
Tom couldn’t describe how opposed he felt. After a few seconds (or hours, he wasn’t sure) Tom turned his head, and discovered that the thing was gone. 

He drifted up the stairs once more, at a much less hurried pace, and observed his corpse through the gaps in the stair banister railings. The sight made his stomach do a phantom flip, and he knew he’d vomit if he could.

Tom sat on the stairs, holding his head in his hands.

What the hell just happened?

It was as if he had been trapped. No, he  _ had  _ been trapped. In those moments, he had been a prisoner of his own legs, forcing him over and over to discover his body. 

Tom racked his brain, trying to remember any sort of information that could help. The thing seemed to be gone - for now - so it could be safe to ponder. He let himself fall through the stairs and onto the bottom floor, and walked straight through the walls to watch Harry in the living room.

He looked happy. Should Tom feel happy for him, too?

He observed as Harry opened a bottle of wine, throwing each of his books away from him as he sat in his chair and drank; there was a deadness in his eyes, and Tom knew he wasn’t over killing him.

Tom wasn’t over it, either.

A book nearby caught his attention. He hadn’t seen Harry read this one yet, and the page was open somewhere in the middle. A subheading in bold, black letters caught his eye:

**GHOST WALL.**

Intrigued, Tom read on.

_ ‘A ghost wall is, essentially, a break in time. More accurately, a loop. It is most often seen in hauntings by ghosts who lived a routined life, and would repeatedly do the same thing over and over again. However, some spirits can become trapped in a wall. If this happens, the ghost wall can be repeatedly renewed until the wall is broken, either by the trapped spirit, or the trapper themselves. Little information is known of this phenomenon, but there is one thing that all researchers can agree on: It is not in the reality that we all know.’ _

Tom swallowed. Well, this was new. And highly lucky that he just  _ happened  _ to find the book on this particular page. Just as the thought crossed his mind , the high, piercing laugh of the thing drifted past his ears, and he shuddered.

Was he the trapped one in that situation, then? Trapped by the thing that had been tormenting Harry?

He sat down on the arm of Harry’s chair, his fingers quite literally ghosting over his dark locks of hair. Flashes of knives caught in afternoon sunlight and glowing green eyes in the dark flitted through his mind.

His wound ached, and he pulled his hand away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unedited bc im lazy shut up


	4. if i quit calling you my lover (move on)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> final chapter :)  
> rituals and cedric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by the lovely
> 
> [musicneverdies!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicneverdies1702/profile)
> 
> thank you so much for this. you did a wonderful job, and saved me so much time <3

Harry’s high ended the next day. 

He rolled off the  sofa around noon, although Tom couldn’t tell the exact time. The clocks here all stayed the  same for some reason,  and the world outside the windows seemed permanently dark. He missed the sun. He missed  being  outside. 

Harry staggered into the kitchen, kicking away wine bottles and books. The candles from the ritual lay extinguished on the  floor and Tom almost longed for them to be lit again. It had been sort of nice to see a source of light for once, since the house was always eerily lit without visible  lights. He came back into the living room seconds later, a box of headache tablets in hand. Tom watched  Harry  down  two, noticing the way his eyes lingered on the box even after he put it down. 

Flopping back onto the couch,  Harry tiredly rubbed his face with a dirty hand. He hadn’t showered since the day before Tom’s death. 

Tom sat on the floor next to  Harry’s head , staring into dull green eyes as Harry looked straight through him. His…husband (should he even call him that anymore?) picked up another  book and traced the index page with a dirt-filled fingernail. His eyes were squinted in vague pain and discomfort, likely from a hangover, but he flicked through the pages determinedly nevertheless. Tom wasn’t paying much attention to the book; he was studying Harry.

His face was so familiar, it made him ache. He longed for familiarity, to be able to reach through this invisible barrier and be back to normal. 

But even if he could, things wouldn’t be the same. 

It was too painful. The sight of Harry’s forest-green eyes sent waves of shivers up his spine as he recalled the horrible creature’s twisted appearance, how it  had  turned itself into a sick mockery of what Tom once found safety in. The way Harry’s eyelashes brushed against his cheeks when he blinked sleepily tugged at something deep within Tom’s gut, and all he could think of were the eyes that watched him die. Harry’s roughly calloused hands from years of  Quidditch  turned the pages of the worn  book and Tom felt the twist of metal piercing his skin and embedding itself into his spine all over again. 

No, it’d never be the same. 

Harry  yawned and Tom watched his lips stretch into a silent ‘O’, remembering the days in which he was happiest with those lips on his own. He couldn't imagine feeling that way ever again.

He didn’t know how long he stared for; as he said, the light didn’t change, and there was no ticking of clocks to alert him of the passing time. It  seemed  as if it were only he and Harry in the whole universe,  in  a timeless moment that seemed to last forever. But as all things do, it came to an end when Harry suddenly sat upright, gasping as he went. His eyes were flitting across the page hungrily, as if whatever was written there was the most important thing in the world at that moment. Tom watched  curiously, shifting himself onto the sofa beside  Harry  so that he could peer over his shoulder.

It was a summoning ritual.

_ Oh _ , he thought blankly, staring at the pages and feeling Harry practically vibrating in anticipation next to him. He slid off the  couch and went to stand in the middle of the room, in the centre of the leftover ritual. 

Harry wanted him back.

Did he want Harry?

Tom watched him stand and pace around the living room, book still in hand. Tom was relatively sure Harry had already read what there was to know, and was simply rereading to make sure it was actually there.

He was going to bring Tom back.

Tom pondered the idea; what would it feel like? To have his heart beat within his chest once again, to be able to swallow the saliva that his mouth produced and breathe air deep into his lungs for the sole purpose of living? It would take some getting used to, that was for sure. 

Having gone so long - what felt like an eternity - without these bodily functions, he was certain that it’d be jarring. Sort of like physical therapy, he mused. Would his organs immediately start working as they should? Or would they stay still and silent, letting him die all over again; after all, his body was alive, and that was all Harry asked for. They could suddenly collapse on him, the sudden strain of work being too much.

Or perhaps it’d all miraculously go to plan. He didn’t know.

Harry finally placed the book down, keeping it open on a specific page. Tom wandered over, tilting his head to look at the small print.

_ This ritual is one of the darkest there is. For it to work, you must have a human sacrifice. _

Interesting. Tom spared a glance at Harry, who was so tense you could’ve assumed he was a spring ready to bounce. Would he go through with this, if it meant taking another life, just like he took Tom’s? He was about to go back to his  reading when Harry suddenly bolted over to the book and snapped it shut. He stared at the closed book, hands shaking, and stashed it under a pillow on the couch. Tom sighed  in frustration and followed Harry as he walked into the kitchen once again. He sat at the kitchen table, head in his hands, and Tom sat opposite  him , watching intently.

He did that a lot. Watching.

Harry  ran  his hands through his hair, something he always did when he was stressed, and Tom felt something lurch in his chest. He seemed conflicted; his eyes kept glancing up at the ceiling, and Tom registered that the kitchen was right beneath the landing - in other words, right beneath his body.

He rested his chin on his hands, though he didn’t need to. He stared at Harry’s raging green eyes, bearing witness to the battle waging within them. Tom knew exactly what he was thinking. 

Shame, and  guilt, about killing another human being. Even more guilt over killing Tom. Trying to convince himself it’s justified, that he is technically saving someone else’s life, and that it wasn’t selfish if it was for somebody else. He  probably  figured that if he was saving one person, it was okay. The deep yearning lodged in his chest telling him that he ought to have Tom back was winning the battle here; Tom could see it.

Eventually, he groaned, and flopped his head onto the table.

He cried for hours. 

His shoulders shook, his eyes watered, and his breaths came in short, panicked gasps that made him hiccup. His glasses fogged up so badly that he tossed them onto the floor, prioritising his  sobs . 

Tom watched it all with a neutral expression. He told himself he didn’t feel much for him. It was the first time Tom had seen Harry cry so much, and he ignored the sorrowful pull of his gut as he observed the breakdown.

Eventually, his sobs turned to shaky breaths, and he rubbed his face in vain. Tear streaks littered his cheeks, and he had a steely glint in his eyes. He looked determined.

He’d decided.

“I have to do this,” Tom barely heard him whisper. The sound was still muffled, and he had to strain his ears to listen. “For Tom.”

* * *

  
  


For the rest of the day, Harry finally got his shit together. He ventured upstairs for the first time since Tom’s death, and resolutely did not look at the rotting corpse on the floor. He walked straight into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stayed in there for forty-five minutes. He emerged  wet, but clean , and Tom was startled at how different  he looked . Less like a dirty homeless man, more like a malnourished junkie. 

He  also  changed his clothes for the first time. He donned one of Tom’s T-Shirts - Harry’s favourite one - and some clean jeans, slipping on white trainers and tying a hoodie around his waist. He spared a glance at his hair, but decided to leave it be; what could he do to it, really?

Then he walked out the door without looking back.

Tom waited. And waited. And waited. And… waited.

Harry didn’t return for a long time.

It must have been nighttime when he did, however, for he had chosen to wear his hoodie against the evening chill outside. He was carrying flowers, which Tom thought was strange, and he had a numb look on his face. In his other hand was a plastic carrier bag, and Tom couldn’t see what it held.

Harry set the bag down on the coffee table, but didn’t unpack it. He stared at it for a long time, seemingly in a trance, before he snapped out of his stupor and sat down on the couch. He dropped the flowers in the bin beside the sofa. Tom watched him hold his head in his hands and let out a dry sob; just one, however. There were no tears, just a  deep  sound of grief that seemed to come from somewhere deep within. Tom kneeled  down, looking at the flowers, and discovered a small card peeking out from behind a yellow ribbon.

_ “I had a wonderful time today, it was really nice meeting you. Hopefully we can see each other again sometime. X” _

Oh.

A heavy stone seemed to settle in Tom’s  stomach and he couldn’t take his eyes off the card. He wasn’t stupid. Harry had been on a date, or something similar. He wondered where they met; where they went together; what they talked about; when Harry had moved on…

Tom dropped his eyes from the  card and a choking noise left his mouth , unbidden. The sound barely made it to his ears, however, as there seemed to be only white noise surrounding him, drowning out everything else. Something sour in the back of his throat made him swallow  harshly and he finally looked back at Harry.

He didn’t look happy. He didn’t look as though he was ready to leave Tom in the past. He didn’t look like he wanted to meet this person again anytime in the near future. But Tom knew he would. 

He’d meet the stranger again, they’d have a lovely time doing  everything and nothing , they would laugh together, joke together, be able to touch and smell and see and taste and hear-

All so that Harry may once again do those things with Tom.

Tom didn’t know how he felt. The thought of Harry with someone else was… unpleasant, and brought a sick feeling along with it, and he wasn’t completely sure whether he wanted to live, either. On the other hand, to be able to  _ feel,  _ to  _ breathe  _ again…

Was it worth it? Would he be okay with sacrificing someone else for his own gain?

Of course he would. It’s not like he hadn’t done it before. Humans were tools, whether they liked it or not, and had their  occasional  uses. This  stranger  just so happened to be his one-way ticket to the land of the living. 

The sound of Harry’s snores broke Tom out of his pondering, and he looked over towards the sofa where Harry lay. The sight of him brought those stupid,  _ stupid  _ muted emotions back, and Tom yearned for them to just be  _ clearer,  _ for him to just  _ understand what the hell was happening. _

It was wishful thinking, he knew, but he couldn’t stand it. Ever since he’d gotten here, he either felt everything , or nothing at all. It was exhausting, and the worst part was, he could never sleep it off. 

* * *

  
  


Harry brought him home a week later.

He was handsome, Tom noted, with a charming , even smile and warm brown eyes and perfectly wavy brown hair. His jaw was sharp but his face was soft; he was the  very  picture of a perfect Prince Charming. His eyes followed Harry wherever he went, their depths holding only adoration and trust, and Tom watched in interest as Harry’s face grimaced ever so slightly whenever he caught sight of the open, vulnerable expression.

Tom had never been like this man.

They seemed  like polar opposites, and Tom wondered whom Harry preferred. It was hard to tell whether the repressed discomfort was due to the grief of losing a lover and replacing him so soon, or if he genuinely did not like the new man.

Whatever the reason, it intrigued Tom.

It made him vaguely nauseous  though , observing the two together. He soon learned that the  man’s  name was Cedric, and he physically scoffed at how perfect the name was for him. All the more evidence pointing towards Tom’s ‘perfect Prince Charming’ theory.

Tom’s disgust grew as he stood by  day after day . Cedric was so awfully  _ kind,  _ so excruciatingly  _ loving, _ and Tom wanted nothing more than to rip through these invisible barriers containing him  in the realm of the dead , to wrap his cold fingers around Cedric’s  _ perfect  _ throat, to drain the  _ perfect _ life out of him, to feel his  _ perfect  _ body sag and his  _ perfect  _ weight grow heavier and heavier until he fell to the floor, as dead as Tom.

His fingers twitched as Cedric brushed some of Harry’s dishevelled hair out of his face,  jaw clenching in anger. 

He could do nothing, and that’s what was the most frustrating.

He sulked in the corner of the living room, begrudgingly bearing witness to the disgustingly loving nature of Cedric. It was almost time. He still did not know his opinions on the matter.

Eventually, after  an interminable afternoon of sickening physical affection, Cedric rose from the sofa, stretching his arms above his head (his shirt conveniently riding up to expose his hips) and smiled down at Harry.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom, could you tell me where it is?”

Harry tensed microscopically, and Tom’s lips quirked upwards as Cedric remained oblivious.

“Up the stairs to the left, in the middle of the hall.” He said monotonously, and Cedric nodded.

“Thanks, love.” He responded, and Tom was sure he’d gag if he could. Pet names so early on? How tactless.

As soon as Cedric was out of view, Harry leapt into action. He reached behind the sofa to grab his plastic bag of equipment, and began laying it all out in the required positions. Tom cast his eyes up through the ceiling, and smirked in satisfaction as he sensed Cedric stop dead - hah! - in the hallway.

Harry finished his setup just as Cedric began to scream. 

Tom smirked, and peered around the corner, up the stairs, just to get at least a  _ glimpse  _ of the horrified expression on Cedric’s face.

He wasn’t disappointed. 

Prince  Charming’s perfect features were marred by shock and terror, his eyes bulging from his skull and his mouth hanging open in a jagged ‘O’. Tom watched him stumble backwards in satisfaction, covering that agape mouth to avoid vomiting, and gripping the stair banister as if his life depended on it.

Which, in more ways than one, it did.

Harry crept up the stairs behind Cedric, taking his arm gently. The man startled, turning to Harry with a deliciously betrayed look in his eyes. Tom smiled as Harry shushed his incoherent whimpers of fear, leading him down the stairs. Cedric, whom Tom imagined to be in a rather delirious state of shock, allowed himself to be dragged along numbly. 

Like a lamb to slaughter.

Cedric’s breathing sped up considerably once he saw the ritual lain out across the floor of the living r oom and tried to tug his arm out of Harry’s grasp , but he was weak from terror, and Harry was determined, and so he failed. 

“It’s okay, Cedric.” Harry murmured in his ear, almost comfortingly. “It’ll all be over soon. I’m sorry it had to be you, but you were just so easy. So convenient.” Cedric whimpered, and Harry hushed him  again . “Shh, it’s okay. Soon I’ll have Tom, and you won’t have to worry about anything anymore.

Harry guided him over to his needed circle, and took a knife from his pocket. Cedric gulped, and Tom's hungry eyes followed his Adam’s apple as it bobbed in his throat.  Harry’s gaze unerringly fixed on it as well , and his smile was almost as sharp as the blade in his hand.

“Buh-bye, Cedric.” He whispered, his voice almost seductive, and Cedric barely had any time to register what it meant before Harry’s weapon sliced its way easily through his throat.

Cedric’s eyes impossibly widened further as the blood spurted from his neck, spraying Harry with the mess. Harry’s hand didn’t  falter and he dragged the metal  blade  further across the  soft skin until the man gagged on his own blood and collapsed to his knees. Harry stepped back,  watching the ever-widening pool of blood soak into the carpet without any reaction. He arranged Cedric’s corpse in different positions until he was satisfied, then went upstairs to drag Tom’s body down.

In a way, it was quite amusing to see  how  Harry struggled to handle the  _ literal  _ dead weight, to watch as his rotting head thunked on the steps as it was hauled down the stairs. The  ghostly  knife  still  embedded in his spine gave a twitch of pain at the sight of his body being so roughly handled, but he ignored it easily.

Harry’s effort paid off, as  he soon had Tom’s body in the living room, right beside Cedric’s. He had stopped  twitching by now, but still looked comically fresh compared to Tom’s sagging flesh and slack expression. 

Harry read words that Tom didn’t understand from a thick, gross-looking book, and Tom felt a strange pulling at his navel. He looked around, confused, and saw Cedric standing by the stairs, staring at him numbly.

“It was for you.” Tom  distantly  heard him whisper, the sound croaky and broken due to the large gaping wound in his throat , then the tug grew stronger and Tom was swept away.

* * *

  
  


At first, Tom felt like he was drifting.

But that peaceful nothingness didn’t las t. Soon, he felt as though he was being rolled up and shoved through a tube - the entire process was completely disorientating and he thought he would vomit before remembering that he  physically  couldn’t. 

After what felt like an eternity, he was spat  out the other end of the metaphorical tube, landing with a thud in a new realm.

It was... jarring, to say the least. 

As soon as he felt the solid ground beneath his feet, as opposed to the unstable matter of his previous world, he felt wrong. 

Everything was too bright. The colours that could barely be seen through his squinted eyes assaulted his vision, and he furrowed his eyebrow s. N ot only that, but the excruciating pain of his organs beginning to work again, his heart beating too slow to be comfortable - all of it added up to one ugly picture of agony.

“...Tom?” A voice croaked behind him, and Tom’s sensitive ears rang painfully in response. He turned slowly, and he wasn’t sure if it was his head or the room that was spinning.  Fully  opening his eyes, he saw him.

Then everything rushed back.

The pain in his back made itself more known than ever, and it felt as though someone had just dropped a large weight in his stomach. He fell to his knees, holding his head in his hands and shaking his head rapidly. 

“No, no, no-” Was that him? It couldn’t be. His voice used to be smooth, deep, charming, not this scratching vibration of sound that barely escaped his cracked lips.

“What is it? Is something wrong?” The other voice said, and Tom fought extra hard to push down a broken sob.

He looked up through thick eyelashes, conveying as much hate and betrayal in his expression as possible. 

_ “You.” _

Harry Potter took a cautious step forward, reaching out with a shaky hand. Tom ignored it. 

_ “You,”  _ he repeated, pulling himself off of his knees and into a standing position - his head spun once again, and he gripped a nearby wall for balance. He did not trust himself to stay upright, and he certainly wasn’t going to touch  _ him. _

His murderer.

“I-It’s good to see you.” Harry whispered, tears spilling from his vibrant green eyes and down his cheeks. Tom scoffed.

“You _killed_ me.” He said, and it felt as though his throat were closing in on him, as if each word he spoke was a knife cutting through his throat, just as Harry had done to Cedric.

At that thought, Tom swivelled his head back to where he had seen the dead man in the other world. The space was  empty now , no  sluggishly  bleeding figure to be seen. Instead, he dragged his eyes over to the centre of the living room, where the two bodies lay side by side on the beige carpet, now  forever  stained with crimson.

The smell hit worse here than it did in the other  realm and Tom actually did gag this time . His throat protested, as did his stomach, but still he retched up nothing. He had nothing  left  to give.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat, and Tom scowled. 

“I’m sorry, Tom. I’m so fucking sorry-”

Tom didn’t interrupt him, but Harry cut himself off anyway. He stared down at his hands, caked  in Cedric’s blood, and sobbed. “I didn’t want to. I was  _ made  _ to. You have to believe me.”

Tom squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his fists to stop himself from shaking. He wanted nothing more than to be back in the realm of the dead, where there were no overwhelming feelings of betrayal, where there was no such thing as time, or guilt, or indecision, and where he could sink through the floor and  _ not talk to Harry. _

“I don’t- I can’t-” He stuttered. When did words become so difficult? He could barely think over all the noise in his  head, he just wanted this to be  _ over.  _

Harry shushed him, rushing forward to touch his arms, but Tom jerked back before he could. Harry gulped and stepped back reluctantly. “It’s okay, I-I get that this is really weird for you right now… But I just had to see you again.” 

Tom shook his head, biting down on his dry lips so hard he tasted blood. It’d been forever since he’d bled. “I saw you there.” He muttered. Harry frowned in confusion.

“You saw me… in death?” 

“Mmh. I saw everything you did. I was right here. You were right there, but I couldn’t…” Tom trailed off, partly because he didn’t know what else to say, and partly because he was sure his throat would split open if he carried on. 

“What was it like?” Harry asked, then slapped himself. “Sorry. That was very insensitive. I didn’t mean to-”

“Cold.” Tom replied croakily. Harry fell silent. “Painful. Quiet. Dark.” He paused for a moment. “You sent the thing into my world.” 

Harry’s mouth fell open, tears once again gathering in his eyes. “You… You saw  _ it?” _

Tom nodded. “Was awful.” He muttered. “It’s probably still there.” 

“And you- you lived with it?”

“Mmh.”

“Ah, fuck.” Harry whispered, dragging a hand through his hair - the same hair Cedric had pushed away earlier. “I’m sorry.”

“So you’ve said.”

They lapsed into silence, and Tom wondered if Harry felt awkward. He couldn’t be sure. He himself was far too busy trying to sort out the whirlwind of feelings tearing through him right now.

Finally, Harry spoke up.

“The ritual I did needs your consent. If you want to stay, it’s your choice, you just gotta say yes-”

“I don’t think I can do that.” Tom said, barely audible, and Harry’s eyebrows furrowed. 

“What?” He asked, but Tom knew he didn’t need to repeat himself. “You mean you… You don’t want to be with me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please.”

How is it that one word could hurt so much?

“Please, I- You’re all I have.”

Tom turned away, away from those begging green eyes, and tried to be cold. 

“That was your choice - your loneliness is no fault of mine.”

“Tom, I- I love you!”

For a moment, time seemed to stop. The aching in his lungs, his head, his back (but not his heart) slowed, and the words opened the void in the pit of Tom’s stomach even wide r. He fought  a losing battle to keep the ghostly tears from his eyes. He was almost fading away.  Almost back in the sweet embrace of oblivion . He could not back down now.

Soon, the pain would be over, and he’d be back to blissful nothing.

“Not my problem.” He murmured, massaging his temples, and tried to ignore the gasp from behind him, so full of hurt and betrayal - as if  _ he  _ had the right to feel betrayed.

”I killed for you. I did everything for  _ you-” _

“I’m  _ dead,  _ Harry!” Tom snapped, and the truth seemed so much harsher out loud. “I’m dead. I can’t be with you how you want. It won’t  _ work.  _ You  _ killed me.” _

“Then I’ll die with you!”

Tom froze.

“Anything! It’s not worth it, I can’t live without you-”

“Don’t throw your life away for me.”

“But it’s not  _ for  _ you!” Harry sobbed, and Tom finally faced him, watched as the tears streaked rapidly down Harry’s pretty face, still beautiful even when in sorrow. “It’s selfish, and wrong, but I  _ want  _ you. If I die to join you, it’s not for you. It’s for me.”

Harry took a step closer.

“You’re all I need, Tom.”

Tom stepped back.

“You should have thought of that before,” He said. His tone was sharp as the knife forever embedded in his back, and  he finally allowed himself to sink once again into the realm of the dead.

Harry broke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now that this is finally over, let's do some clarification!  
> okay what im tryna do here is show how fucking difficult emotions are lmao  
> hes been in the dead land™️ for at least a few weeks now, and he has become so accustomed to having his feelings muted, or coming in small doses. suddenly being thrown back into the land of the living, where everything is so overwhelming, is gonna be fucking difficult.  
> my thing here is that as soon as he comes back, hes gonna feel all that heavy betrayal and anger and grief at once. if he stays in the land of the living, he will eventually get used to them and they will go away, to be replaced with understanding. but because these feelings are drowning out literally everything, he cannot think of it like that. so basically, no matter how much harry explains, hes still gonna feel all this shit.  
> ^i said all this to goldenzingy46 on discord after she yelled "JUST LISTEN TO HIM" jhgfdsxcvb  
> if u have any questions just comment. i'll answer, im a slut for comments.  
> this was a fun story to write. thanks for coming on this little horror journey with me. it's my first time writing something like this, so im anxious about how it turned out altogether.   
> see you in the next one :)

**Author's Note:**

> read my other shit  
> also follow my tumblr. https://alfiisha.tumblr.com/


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